


On a quiet street where old ghosts meet

by Kasimere



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (kinda), Angst, Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Not Beta Read, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasimere/pseuds/Kasimere
Summary: Varric never quite straightened out how he felt about Hawke.





	On a quiet street where old ghosts meet

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write. I say, with this being my second DA fic.

_I saw her first and knew_

_That her dark hair would weave a snare_

_That I may one day rue._

He sits across the table from her, whilst feigning interest in his hand he peers over the cards to get a good look at the woman in front of him.

            She is by no means traditionally appealing, there’s no grace in her casual slouch with her staff lying across her lap. Any air of nobility vanishes when she swigs straight from the bottle. Maker only knows why she chooses to smear ‘blood’ across her face or why she wears armour on her nights off, her hair is styled to be a mess and she seldom bothers to remove last night’s makeup. But Varric thinks she’s beautiful nonetheless.

            He’s never quite straightened out how he feels about Hawke. He knows the basics, she’s his closest friend. He’d gladly spend another handful of years in constant danger if it meant he was running with her. They spend nights together sharing a bottle of something rancid but that never matters, not when they have each other for company. It isn’t lust, per se. She is beautiful, her laugh sends his heart to the stars, and whenever she needs him to hold her legs as she does a sit up or two it’s true he _does_ get a good eyeful. But no… it isn’t lust –  it’s never been lust. But on some days, he just might consider it to be love. _But_ he still hasn’t straightened it all out, not yet.

            He’ll never tell her of course, Hawke keeps people at arm’s reach when it comes to the warm, fuzzy, _intimate_ talk. Every serious conversation is swept under the rug. Every confession of friendship is brushed off, that’s just how she works.

            He loves that about her too.

 

He’s just killed his own brother.

            He’s basically catatonic through the formalities. Hawke is really the one who deals with them, she does the talking, the heavy lifting, the paperwork. But Varric doesn’t have the words to thank her, he doesn’t have much of anything right now.

            It’s Hawke who sits with him the longest, Daisy a close second, Aveline surprisingly coming in third. Hawke sits and waits as he has his head in his hands, he doesn’t cry, but he breaths sharply from time to time and swears under his breath.

            But as the sun rises, Hawke’s hand on his has brought a numbing sense of acceptance. It’s enough to allow him to spend the morning reminiscing about his idiot brother before falling asleep on her shoulder some time around noon.

            Later, he realises she never stopped to rest once. She kept going, just for him. He thinks he’ll probably never be able to repay that debt- but he’s willing to try.

 

Leandra’s dead.

            Hawke just goes home. Varric is left sitting with Daisy, Blondie, and Aveline in silence in a sparse mansion. He bets that they all feel as useless as he does, no one tries to lighten the mood.

            Eventually the Elf shows up, somehow looking more forlorn than usual. He says Hawke wanted to be left alone. But Varric knew that already, he’d told Fenris that’s how Hawke dealt with things but he didn’t listen, Varric had expected better from him.

            They’re all sat here now, and Varric thoughts turn bitter. It appears the room is swimming in self-pity, but it’s Hawke who has just lost her mother, this must be the first time he’s been angry at the rag tag group in its entirety.

            He offers to walk Daisy home. She takes him up on the offer.

            He excuses both himself and his charge, and they walk in silence.

            The next evening he’s sat in his quarters, scrawling a piss poor attempt at a chapter. His heart’s not in it. Not right now. But there’s a knock at the door, sighing he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets the quill fall uselessly on the desk; the ink splatters across freshly scribbled words.

            Hawke stands in the doorway; the jovial tavern music makes him want to wince. Her eyes are exhausted and her smirk is superficial. She waggles a bottle uselessly in one naked hand, she’s not wearing armour.

            He invites her in, takes the bottle and pours two glasses.

            Two glasses become four, then six, then eight, ten, twelve. She talks about nothing important, she makes jokes that are hollow and Varric tries to laugh. Eventually she wobbles over to the door and he’s worried she’s leaving. He doesn’t want her to go. The thought makes his insides twist all the wrong way. But she opens the door, listens to the music from the tavern below, and smiles. The smile is real, and so sad Varric can’t put into words how much it just doesn’t make sense. Hawke returns to the room, holding her hand out to him.

            “Let’s dance.” How could Varric say no to that?

            They dance, awkwardly at first but then the height difference, intoxication, and situation blur the scene into something that makes sense. Now as their arms sway between them and Hawke laughs despite the tears that run down her face, Varric lets his heart break for a second time in quick succession. Maybe he’s crying too, crying for Hawke, for himself, for his idiot fucking brother, for Leandra, but his tears are silent. Her laughs become sobs and she slowly comes to rest on the floor wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He stares ahead. He won’t lie, he’s too jaded _(and she’s too smart)_ to believe happy endings happen in real life, so he won’t tell her it’ll be okay.

            But he’ll stay here, until she cracks a smile.

 

Well, shit.

            The Chantry is on fire, he’s covered in the blood of an abomination, and Hawke is too quiet.  But when she comes to him, smiling brightly with a staff firm in hand. He can almost pretend it’s just another day.

            They share an awkward attempt at sentiment, but for a writer he’s terrible with words and Hawke knows that more than anyone else in Thedas. They shake hands, there’s people watching after all. But Hawke’s hand lingers on his for longer than necessary.

            Then they throw themselves into the fight.

 

He kisses Hawke for the first time shortly after they leave Kirkwall.

             It’s a kiss goodbye. Hawke plans to run off somewhere secret with whatever is left of their old gang. Varric stays behind. He’ll handle the fallout. It’s the least he can do, it’s possibly the closest he can come to repaying Hawke for their years of… whatever they were.

            She’s wearing a hood, and the others awkwardly are waiting in a wagon further up the road. It’s dark and there’s a chill in the air. She leans down and presses her lips against his, Varric brings hands to her face. They cling to each other’s mouths without saying a word. Eventually she pulls away and he tries to follow, but she stands up straight and begins to walk backwards.

            She smiles, winks, and points at Varric with both hands.

            He laughs. Loudly, heartily, it echoes as she turns vanishes into the night. Wheezing, he wipes a tear from his eye and sits at the side of the road to wait for sunrise.

 

He leans against the battlements, his back pressing against the stone. Hawke is close enough to touch. She’s looking over the edge of the great walls and her eyes scan the endless mountain peaks as if she’s looking for something.

            They act as if nothing has changed. Like this just another day and they’ve had no time apart. It’s nice to think whatever they have will go on forever. Totally ridiculous, but nice.

            He pushes himself up off the stone and white dust sticks to his back. He smiles and gestures to the Tavern. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to a few friends of mine.”

            Tiny, a handful of his chargers, Sparkler, and the Kid join him and Hawke for a game of Wicked Grace. Sparkler longs to hear what ‘really’ happened in Kirkwall, without Varric’s stretchy version of the truth. Tiny wants a step by step walkthrough of Hawke’s one-on-one with the Arishock, and the Kid stays quiet for the most part rocking back and forth on his stool next to Varric.

            Sparkler retires for the night, Tiny along with him and the chargers chuckle amongst themselves before bidding Varric farewell. Hawke sits like she did back then, slouched and informal- nothing like her title. She doesn’t look like a champion, she just looks like _her_. The Kid doesn’t leave, Hawke’s been talking with him. Maybe it’s because she’s had experience with spirits… or at least partial spirits but she seems to warm up to the spirit-boy. Cole, for all his oddities and shyness when it came to being seen by strangers, seemed to enjoy Hawke’s company.

            “ _Nothing like Justice. He looks like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Varric told me he’s deadly in a fight. Maybe I just can’t tell the bad from the good anymore?..._ But it’s true, I’ve killed lots of people.” Hawke’s expression is unreadable, she eyes Varric who shrugs. She smiles, tilting her head with a fondness he didn’t expect her to have already when she focuses back on the spirit.

            “But you’re not a monster, are you?” Cole blinks, and Varric focuses on the lines in the table.

           

Her smile is easy, her armour polished and unique to her just like everything else. She’s the most beautiful person in the whole world.  She stands tall, a staff in one hand as the other holds his. No fear, no grief, just an amazing feeling of acceptance laced with morbid excitement. And Varric can’t stand it. He wants to scream, drag her through that goddamn rift and give her a piece of his mind. How dare she stay here, how dare she die _here_.

                “No, you can’t do this!”

                “Oh, can’t I?” She leans down, her hands leaves his as she cradles his face. He can’t kiss her back, he can’t, he’s choking but never the less her lips grace his. There are words that are unspoken and Varric curses the Maker that he can’t say them out loud. Hawke doesn’t say them either, her eyes lock onto his as she pulls away. Varric is grabbed from behind. He struggles and swears.

                Hawke winks, pointing at him with one hand as he’s sucked back into the real world.

                He calls her name. But it’s met with the roar of a demon.

 

“Please, don’t.” He pleads, stopping Cole before he can speak. Varric can’t- won’t- hear the thoughts from his head, they will only make the situation real.

                The Kid says nothing, sitting clumsily beside Varric against the wall of the battlements. Varric stares at his hands before covering his face with them. An awkward hand rests on his shaking back and he breaks, sobbing he tips sideways and leans against the bony body of the spirit next to him.

                He might never know Hawke’s last thought, a loud burst of emotion that shocked Cole out of a stupor in the Fade. Cole might tell him one day, but not yet… it will not help.

_On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,_

_I see her walking now away from me,_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope someone out there liked it, it was written in a feverish state last night after listening to 'Raglan Road' a few too many times.


End file.
